


The Return

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-07
Updated: 2007-05-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: They’d abandoned him. He’d been their sacrifice. And sure, he’d been a supposedly willing participant, but what choice had he actually had? He’d paid the price for all of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Warnings: Swearing. Implied torture/violence (occurs off-screen)  
  
Spoilers: For the whole of season 3 and parts of season 4.  


* * *

x-x

Trip shifted where he stood, hands clasped tightly behind him. He kept well to the back of the landing bay, giving the dark, blocky ship plenty of room to manoeuvre as it docked. 

The tiny vehicle in front of him wasn't anything graceful. It was actually pretty plain looking, all dark panels, straight lines and sharp angles. Not at all like he remembered their starships, but he supposed that this particular ship had been made for harsh, utilitarian jobs, rather than for elegance. 

He cast a brief glance to Jon, but the captain was staring straight ahead, eyes only for their guests, so he turned instead to Hoshi standing between them. She was clearly anxious, her eyes darting from the ship to the translation device in her hand and back again. Phlox was the only calm looking one of the bunch, but his trademark grin was long gone, a look of determination taking its place. 

"How'd we get him out?" Hoshi ventured to ask, her voice not quite as confident as usual. 

Trip gave her a sharp look, shaking his head, but it was too late. Before Jon could say something he might later regret, Trip stepped forward, trying to steal the focus. "I'm just glad we were able to get him out of that prison," he said, keeping his voice low and even. He glanced at the captain, then back to Hoshi. He knew that Jon had sacrificed a lot to get this done, but there was no way that Hoshi could be allowed to know that. 

The ship settled into place with a loud "whoosh", and Trip was suddenly glad for the MACOs in the background. 

Hoshi looked at him gratefully. "I hope he's all right."

Phlox kept his eyes on the vessel, but said, "It's been two years. There is no way to know his state of mind."

In a flash of insight, Trip wondered if the MACOs were there only for protection against the aliens. 

The ship's hatch began to open, lowering to the deck in a soft whir. When it finished, the bay went dead-silent, all eyes on the doorway. 

At first, Trip could see nothing but darkness inside the hatch. There was a flurry of movement and a group of men came into view, all dressed in dark uniforms, all with dark hair, and with near-human features but for the graceful ridges sweeping up into their hairlines and a wider, gracefully ridged nose. Not a smile was on them as they stood in the doorway, still partially concealed by darkness. One man, probably their leader, stepped off the hatch to the deck. He was very well armed. 

No one in Trip's group moved. 

The leader turned back to the ship and waved someone forward. Two men stepped out from behind the group at the hatch. One had a hand on the elbow of the other who, head down, met no one's eyes. Long, uncombed hair hid most of his face, although it was obvious that the man was filthy, his clothing ragged. His hands were in shackles. He looked as if, by his posture alone, he was purposefully trying not to be noticed. 

Trip heard Hoshi gasp beside him, and he felt his own gut clench. 

The leader approached their group, while the others stayed near their ship. "We are ready for the prisoner transfer. Do you have the documentation ready?"

Jon, seemingly frozen in place, spat, "Get those cuffs off him."

Trip could tell that Jon was too angry, too invested in this, so he stepped forward. "We do," he said, gesturing for Hoshi to join them. He took care of the details with the man while another of the aliens uncuffed the prisoner. It took a few minutes to complete the deal, even with Hoshi at his side to translate the documents. Once they were done, the alien nodded to his counterparts, and they pushed the prisoner forward. He stumbled a bit and raised his head slightly, blinking against the brightness. He looked dazed, and quickly dropped his gaze to the deck. 

"Good luck with that," the alien leader said, the sarcasm obvious from his tone. His face twisted into what might have been a grin. "He's barely said a word in two years." The leader turned away, and his staff followed suit. They didn't look back once. 

"Good-fucking-riddance," Trip said under his breath, bitterness turning his thoughts sour. He turned away as soon as they stepped foot on their own ship again, trusting the MACOs to do their jobs. 

Probably knowing that the crew's instinct would be to step forward, toward their returned crewmate, Phlox held them back with a raised hand. The doctor approached the man slowly, obviously trying not to startle him. "Lieutenant."

The man stood there, head bowed, hands held together as if they were still in restraints. 

When the doctor got no response, he said, this time more sharply, "Mister Reed."

Still nothing. 

Phlox put a hand to Malcolm's shoulder, and Malcolm's head snapped up violently. Trip took a sharp breath at the look in his eyes. Fear, and anger, and something more than a bit wild. 

The doctor dropped his hand and took a step back, giving Malcolm some space. "Come with me. We need to go to sickbay. I need to exami..."

Malcolm interrupted him with the first words he'd said so far. "How long was I gone?"

"Two years," Phlox said, his voice kept deliberately calm. 

Jon stepped forward, and Malcolm's gaze darted to him. Trip couldn't see the expression on the captain's face, but he could well imagine. 

"Why now?" Malcolm said. His voice was calm, but his eyes - those told a different story.

"Malcolm, we need -"

Before Jon could finish speaking, Malcolm cocked his head, as if thinking something over. He nodded as if coming to some sort of realisation. "Can I clean up first?"

Jon glanced at Phlox, who hesitated, then nodded. 

Without acknowledging the rest of them, Malcolm turned and started a slow walk toward the doorway. Trip exchanged a meaningful look with Jon before they followed him out.

x-x

Trip watched as Malcolm stepped to the shower at the back of sickbay. With his back to his audience, he stripped off his filthy garments, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. He turned on the water and stepped underneath, lifting his face to the current as the stream made streaks through the grime on his skin and coursed down his back. 

Trip ignored the conversation going on behind him, where Phlox and Jon were discussing their next steps. Nothing good was going to come from their debate, so he purposefully blocked out Phlox's strident tones and Jon's hissed responses. 

Malcolm had turned partially toward them, and Trip could now see that his eyes were closed. He was standing there, letting the water hit his head and shoulders and flow down and away. 

Trip was torn between horrified fascination - wanting to stare at Malcolm and catalogue all the changes - and wanting to give the man some privacy. In the end, he wrenched his eyes away. What he'd seen was enough. 

He was suddenly glad he'd sent Hoshi back to the bridge. This was not the Malcolm he had known. The years Malcolm had been in that prison had obviously changed him, not just in terms of appearance, but... God, the look in his eyes from earlier, and now, with his not caring... Trip realised that he could very well be standing there, staring at Malcolm as he showered, and he doubted that Malcolm would even notice. Or if he did notice, that he'd give two shits. 

The change probably had a lot to do with the scars Trip had seen on Malcolm's back and shoulders. He looked at Malcolm again, watching as he, with eyes still shut, reached out for the shampoo on the wall. Some of the scars appeared to be older, less raised and somewhat faded. Others were obviously newer, raised red ridges where he'd been whipped or cut. And then there were the scars at his temples. 

Two years, Malcolm had been locked in that prison. Two damn years! Shaking his head slightly, Trip looked away. He pulled over a nearby chair and, turning it around, straddled it. Crossing his arms over its back, he leaned his chin on his hands. They'd been visiting a planet called Crath, and everything had actually been going very well for once. Until Malcolm, escorting Jon to a state dinner, had been captured by some... well, he supposed they were bounty hunters, of a sort. Hired security who'd been paid by the Illyrians to find Jon or, short of that, anyone from Enterprise. Malcolm had made sure that Jon had escaped, but he himself hadn't been as lucky. 

So Malcolm had been the one put on trial for what the Illyrians felt were Enterprise's sins. And they certainly had sinned. They'd stolen the Illyrian's warp core in their own desperate search for the Xindi. They'd taken that warp core and left the Illyrians there to make their slow way home. The fact that Jon had been the one who'd wanted to raid the ship, and that Malcolm was actually one of the few who'd spoken up and questioned him... Trip shook his head. Even when Jon had showed up in person, the Illyrians hadn't cared. They had their man. 

Malcolm had paid the price for all of them.

Trip clenched his fingers on the top edge of the chair, the metal surface digging into his skin. He could still remember the last time he'd seen Malcolm. Malcolm had just been convicted by the aliens for theft and depraved indifference - despite their argument that he'd been acting under orders from Jon, actions that were done as part of his job and in search of the Xindi, damn it, but no one would listen. They hadn't cared that he'd never boarded their ship. They hadn't cared that Trip himself had taken the core, or that Jon had lead the boarding party. Not even Jon showing up for the trial had dissuaded them. Trip doubted they'd cared if Malcolm was the Armoury Officer or the damn cook. They saw him as a representative of Starfleet and of Enterprise, and he was tried and convicted on that basis. 

His eyes were drawn back to Malcolm, and he watched the water wash away the worst of the filth, only serving to highlight how thin he'd gotten. He had no idea what Malcolm had gone through in that place, but it had changed him. And God, it could have been worse. He'd originally been up for attempted murder, which would have meant a death sentence. At least he was alive. Trip had taken some heart from that, two years ago. As long as Malcolm was alive, there was still a chance for them to get him out. That it had taken them this long was shameful. Shame added upon shame. He wondered how Jon could even look at himself in the mirror. He knew he couldn't.

With a start, Trip realised that Malcolm had stopped washing and was staring at him, eyes wary. Trip couldn't keep himself from looking away. 

They'd abandoned him. He'd been their sacrifice. And sure, he'd been a supposedly willing participant, but what choice had he actually had?

He'd sacrificed himself, to allow them to go on. To prevent what would likely become a severe diplomatic incident, one that would have prevented them from continuing their mission, and could even have caused a war between the Illyrians and Earth; an Earth that, just after the Xindi attacks, stood in no shape to defend itself against another powerful enemy. 

Trip understood. He understood why Jon had decided to let Malcolm face trial, and why Starfleet had backed him up. He understood, but he almost wished he didn't. He'd rather be filled with hate and anger than this, this nothingness that had replaced it. He seemed to have left his anger about this back with Malcolm on that planet. 

The last time he'd seen Malcolm had been in the court's temporary cell, just after he'd been convicted. They'd been about to move him to the prison facility, and Trip knew that he didn't have much time. He'd stood just outside the transparent barrier that trapped his friend, the buzz of the courtroom behind him, and all he remembered from those moments was his own fear, and the soft prayer for protection he'd muttered. 

No, that wasn't quite true. That's all he was letting himself remember. He remembered what Malcolm had said. 

"If I have to give up my own life, at least it's for something important." Malcolm looked about as scared as Trip had ever seen him, but he also looked sure of himself.

Jon had stepped up beside Trip. "Thank you," was all the captain said, his face solemn. He turned and walked away without looking back. Trip realised that this may have seemed cold to someone who didn't know him, but Trip knew that Jon simply could not turn around and see Malcolm, and still do this. But Trip himself - he'd had to. 

He'd placed a hand flat against the transparent surface, and Malcolm had raised his own palm to meet his. "I'm sorry," Trip had said before his voice cracked with the strength of his emotion. Curling his fingers into his palm, he'd pounded the barrier softly. Eyes burning, he turned and walked away. 

Almost at the door, he had looked back. Malcolm was staring after him, standing at attention but looking lost. When he caught Trip's eye, he gave a tiny, wan smile. 

And Trip had turned away. Turned away and left him there, to face justice for a crime that he hadn't committed, but of which they were all guilty. Trip hadn't wanted to think too hard on what his friend may have experienced these past two years. 

The water shut off, and Trip looked up to see Malcolm grab a towel from the stand next to the shower. He dried himself hastily and wrapped the towel around his waist, all the while ignoring his audience. He stepped to the nearby sink, where one of Phlox's medics had laid out a razor and some scissors. There was a mirror above the sink. He looked up into it and froze. Trip thought he saw a brief spark of shock reflected in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. 

Malcolm lifted the scissors and stared down at them, and for the briefest of seconds, Trip felt uncertain about what this man, who once he'd known so well, might do. He thought Malcolm might be wondering same thing, because he hesitated there, caught in the moment. Then Malcolm looked up to the mirror and began tugging at his beard, cutting it short to prepare for shaving.

Jon's voice cut through Trip's thoughts. "...to speak with him as soon as he's cleaned up," the captain said, his voice pitched low enough not to travel to Malcolm. Trip didn't bother turning around. 

"I haven't had a chance to evaluate him," Phlox argued.

"There's no time for that," Jon said sharply. He winced, and took it down a notch. "Sorry, doctor. We need him."

And they did.

x-x

Trip felt the usual crawly, discomforting feeling of the transporter leaving him as he took a quick look around. They'd materialised in a long alley between close-set buildings, and he could barely see. "Dark," he said, keeping his voice low. He didn't mention the almost overwhelming scent of damp, or the cold that chilled him despite his coat. It was a shocking change from the moderate environment of the ship, and Trip pulled his jacket tighter.

"It's always dark here," Malcolm replied, his eyes moving from the ally's entrance down to the device in his hand. 

That certainly explained the pallor that Phlox had helped them develop. Trip's eyes were already beginning to adjust to the gloom, and he suspected that Phlox's injections were giving his eyesight a bit of help. 

Malcolm's already pale skin had been lightened to ghostly, and his eyes stood out, steel grey against the white. His dark hair, longer now that it used to be, only served to heighten his sense of otherworldliness. Trip knew that he himself looked just as different, but the overall effect was muted due to his sandy hair and lighter eyes. From what he'd seen in the mirror before leaving sickbay, on him the effect was subdued, if excessively pale. On Malcolm, it was striking. Unlike Trip, though, Malcolm had barely even glanced at himself before they'd left. Apparently, the change wasn't as startling to him as it had been to Trip. He'd been through it once before. From what Jon had told him earlier, Malcolm had spent several months here some time before he'd joined Starfleet. He certainly seemed to know the planet well.

"This way," Malcolm said, nodding toward the end of the alley. He slipped the device, which seemed to be the local equivalent of one of their scanners, into a jacket pocket as he moved. 

Trip shifted his small bag to the other shoulder and followed. He found himself casting covert glances at his friend as they walked, as if this would somehow tell him if Malcolm was okay. So far he seemed to be all right, which in and of itself, considering the circumstances, could not be normal. Trip knew that if he'd been rotting in some foreign jail for two years, trying to keep his shit together while being tortured, he wouldn't be at all okay. And yet here Malcolm was, mere hours after being returned, and Trip wasn't sure if his friend really was functional, or if this was all some faÃ§ade that would crack when challenged. But it did have to be Malcolm, and it did have to be now: Jon was right about that much. 

The captain had told him little of Malcolm's past mission on this planet - only that it was related to Malcolm's black ops work, before his Starfleet days. They had used him to infiltrate a group, for what Trip had no idea. But this time, Trip did know - not everything, but enough. 

Starfleet intelligence had picked up some chatter - hell, they were always picking up chatter, but this was different. This was detailed, and specific. 

A large-scale terrorist attack on Earth, focusing on major cities. They didn't know how it would happen. They didn't know which cities would be hit. But they did know when: May 1, 2156. Three weeks. 

The trail of information had lead them here, to a planet where the major governments were more concerned with fighting amongst themselves than with helping Starfleet track down information on an event that hadn't even happened yet. Governments which had outright refused to help, and turned them away. Fuck 'em. They were here now. They'd get what they needed, and leave before the governments even realised they'd been here. 

It seemed like they'd been pissing people off left and right ever since they'd gone after the Xindi. Trip wasn't surprised that, as with the Illyrians, some of that was coming back to bite them in the ass. 

Malcolm stopped for a moment and pulled out the device again, cupping one hand over the screen to hide its soft glow as he read it. Nodding slightly at something he saw there, he started moving again. 

Trip was still unable to believe how far they had drifted from their original mission, and how much Jon had changed. That he was seriously considering using Malcolm like this, when they were not even sure if he was of sound mind - hell, that he'd left Malcolm behind in the first place. It rankled. It bothered the hell out of him. 

Trip let himself fall slightly behind Malcolm, and he took a slow breath. He was blaming Jon again, and it wasn't the man's fault - he knew the captain had done everything he could. Once those bounty hunters had captured Malcolm and brought him to the Illyrians, they'd had little choice but to let their justice system take its course. Starfleet had basically ordered Jon to leave him - Trip could still remember the look on Jon's face when he'd told the crew. But still, a big part of him wished they'd used their might and interceded - stolen Malcolm away from them, or... God, anything but left him there. A big part of him still wanted to go back and blow those Illyrians to hell. Trip swore under his breath, drawing a quick backward glance from Malcolm. He'd been angry a lot lately. At Jon. At the Illyrians. At the terrorists. At Starfleet. At himself. He huffed in disgust. Especially at himself. 

Trip knew there was no other choice, then or now. At least he'd been able to convince Jon to let him go on this operation.

"I should go with him," Trip had said, his gaze moving from Malcolm to where Jon stood beside his biobed. He hoped he wouldn't have to say more - that Jon would just get it, and let him go. He knew that Starfleet had specifically requested Malcolm for this assignment, but they hadn't specifically said that he must go by himself - just that the core details of the mission be kept under wraps. Trip already knew most of those details. And a terrorist attack on Earth? If anyone on Enterprise should be involved in its prevention, it should be him. 

He noticed Phlox approaching from across sickbay as Malcolm shrugged into one of the shirts the doctor kept handy. "I should go alone," Malcolm said as he stood, addressing the comment to the captain rather than to Trip. 

"No way -" Trip started to say.

Malcolm swung toward him. "It's too dangerous," he said sharply. "These are not nice people, Trip, and your being there could complicate the situation."

"Damn it," Trip said under his breath. Then, louder, "You've been gone for two years." He looked to Phlox, now standing beside Malcolm. Trip's eyes then focused on a newly revealed scar on one of Malcolm's fresh-shaven cheeks, and he lowered his voice. "I'm afraid you may not be... Ah, crap," he said, trying to find the right way to say this. When Malcolm tried to speak, he kept going, his words coming in a jumble. "We have no idea of what you've been through. There's no time for a debriefing, or for any sort of counselling, and you could be sick, or worse," he said, almost pleading, thinking of what he'd seen in Malcolm's eyes, and the scars at his temple. At least, with him there, knowing the old Malcolm so well, he'd be able to see if something was going wrong. 

"You plan to act as my babysitter?" Malcolm asked, biting out the words. 

Trip closed his eyes a moment. "Malcolm," he said plaintively. "Please."

Jon looked from one to other. Trip found himself unable read his eyes. "See the quartermaster for appropriate clothing," he finally said. "You're both leaving in an hour."

Malcolm nodded and moved to the door. As Trip was about to follow, Jon caught his arm and held him back. 

"Take care of him," he said softly, nodding toward Malcolm's retreating back. 

Trip nodded. He'd do his best. 

x-x 

Trip realised that his vision was improving. Either his eyes were adjusting to the darkness of this planet, or else - Ah! he thought as the moonlight pierced through the clouds - there was a very bright moon overhead. 

They reached the end of the passage. Malcolm raised a hand to halt Trip, and peered into the street. After a moment, he took a step, waving Trip forward. 

Trip stepped out onto a broad road and paused; they were the only pedestrians in a very industrial looking, urban area. There were no street lights - not surprising on a planet adapted to such a low level of illumination. 

Enterprise had dropped them as close to their destination as possible. Their pick-up point, however, was some distance away from the city, someplace less populated. Since they couldn't bring their own communicators with them, they'd be unable to contact the ship. Enterprise would be scanning their rendezvous point at the same time every day, and likely he and Malcolm would end up sitting there and waiting - thus the need for a fairly deserted location. Short of actually carrying their communicators, it was the best they could do. 

Realising that Malcolm was already halfway to the next building, he hustled to catch up. They walked in silence past a low-lying structure before cutting through another alley and boom, they were out there in the midst of the city, sound and motion surrounding them. He trailed behind as Malcolm lead him past shopfronts, their windows showing slices of the local life, dim lights softening the edges of the darkness just enough to brighten the pavement as he passed. Other than the darkness of the street and the pallor of the bypassers, it could well be a crowded urban area on Earth. Some of the shops even had window boxes filled with plants in deep purples and greens, their oddly shaped leaves reaching upwards as if they'd been designed to capture any possible light. 

His breath plumed out in the cold air as a silvery, slinky vehicle snaked by, its high-pitched whirr clearly audible above the voices of the crowd. He peered down the street. With its low stone buildings winding up both sides of the narrow lane, the city felt more like London or Boston than any place truly alien. But still, despite its familiarity, there was a vague sense of the unfamiliar to the architecture. Maybe the angles of the pitched roofs were slightly off. Or the...

Malcolm disappeared around a corner, not looking back. It was as if he expected that Trip would simply follow, or maybe didn't care if he didn't. Trip rolled his eyes, sighed, and in a series of quick steps, met his friend mid-stride. "Where are we going?" he asked, keeping his voice pitched normally. There was no need to draw the attention of passersby by acting anything but ordinary. 

"Not far," Malcolm replied, not looking at him. 

When Malcolm said nothing else, Trip asked, "Know where you're going?"

Malcolm glanced in his direction. "Yes."

When he didn't say more, Trip stopped trying. Their trip down, and now here on the planet - he wasn't sure if Malcolm's brusqueness was due to the prison experience or to Trip's forcing himself onto this mission. Or - Trip thought this with a shock that almost made him stop walking - to Malcolm's being quite aware of being used by Starfleet, yet again: first as a diplomatic tool in the situation with the Illyrians, and now for his connections here. What was to say that Starfleet wouldn't use him and abandon him like they'd done before? Why was Malcolm even agreeing to do this for them? 

What choice did the man really have? 

As they walked on, Trip realised that he was really starting to hate this. Here they were, thrown into another situation, him with no idea of Malcolm's original assignment here, and Malcolm... He cast a glance to his friend, then away. Malcolm seemed all right, but Trip wasn't buying it. And yet he didn't see any other options. 

They finally had a lead on a person who may have been involved, or known some of the people involved, with the terrorist plot - a person that Malcolm had some vague connection to from his past work here on this planet. But finding the man and getting him to talk, that wouldn't be easy. Even if they knew exactly where he was, which they did not, there was no way they could just waltz in and ask - they'd never be allowed past the door. Breaking in was also an unlikely option - most homes on this planet were heavily secured. They'd have to wait for an invitation - and that's where Malcolm's past work here came into play. But the longer they waited, the closer they got to that date. Trip winced and rolled his neck, trying to drive away the tension. The Xindi had taken his home from him. They'd taken his sister, and millions of other people. He would not let another attack happen; not if he could help it. Jon was right. He wished he wasn't, but he was. There wasn't time for anything - not for a full evaluation of Malcolm, not for nothing. They didn't have another option. With Malcolm's already established connections and their need for haste, this was their only realistic choice.

Malcolm brushed past a pedestrian with a murmured, "Sorry." He stopped at the base of a landing, looking at the door several steps above them. 

The building was one of a series lining the street, each with its own set of steps leading up to a door. Although the buildings seemed to be a uniform grey stone, each doorway had been painted with its own unique design, perhaps somehow indicating the address. And this particular door was almost "...psychadelic," Trip murmured aloud. 

Malcolm gave him a pointed look, one arched eyebrow raised, before he started up the stairs. 

Trip hesitated before proceeding. In that moment, the man had almost seemed like the old Malcolm. Not his friend of recent years, but the original Malcolm, the one who was stiff and formal, guarded and wary, the one who'd existed before they'd become friends. But at least in that moment, he recognised him. Because the man who'd come off the Illyrian shuttle - that man he wasn't entirely sure he knew.

When they reached the door, Malcolm lifted his right hand and, holding it up to one of the more densely patterned areas of the door, placed his palm against it. Trip heard a soft click and Malcolm pushed the door open. 

Trip followed Malcolm into a dark corridor, so dark that he didn't see the person who was there until he moved. 

"Been a while," the man said to Malcolm, his voice loud in the otherwise empty hallway. He stepped away from the wall, and the dim light from a nearby room broke against his back, casting his pale face into shadow. 

"You didn't change the lock," Malcolm replied, tone gone icy. 

The man shrugged. "They have me," he said, as if that were reason enough. He turned dark eyes on Trip. "Who's this?"

Malcolm crossed his arms. "A friend," he said bluntly. 

"What kind of friend?" the man asked, more than a hint of suggestion in his voice. His long, dark hair swung forward as he moved a bit closer. Eyes shadowed by the dim light, he looked Trip over. 

Trip stood still and tried to appear composed, although his instinct was to cross his arms over his chest. He fought the urge to step away. 

When Malcolm didn't answer, the man gave him a knowing look. Lips twisting into a hard smile, he stood back and let them pass. 

Trip could feel the man's eyes burning into his back, but he didn't turn. Nerves on edge, he followed Malcolm down a hallway of crumbling walls smelling of damp, earth and mildew. 

Malcolm pushed through a door and, surprisingly, outdoors. They stepped out onto the muddy ground of a dark courtyard in front of a row of what best could best be described as shotgun shacks - a series of low, scrappy buildings with pointed roofs. Despite their lack of repair, there were obviously people living in them, although no one seemed to be outside. Trip looked beyond the houses and into the gloom and realised that they were surrounded on all sides by a fairly tall, solid wall. This was some sort of compound. 

A woman stepped from one of the doorways and made her way toward them. As she got close, she said, "Malcolm," brightly, breaking into a wide grin. "Zorna buzzed me and said you were back."

"Trina," Malcolm replied with an open smile that shocked Trip into stillness. 

"You've been gone for a while," Trina said, touching Malcolm's arm once, twice, three times, starting at his shoulder and ending on the back of his hand. "Too long."

"Yes," Malcolm said, almost shyly. He returned her ritual greeting, and added, "I had a few things I had to deal with."

"You look..." she let her voice trail off, obviously taking in his thin frame. Eyes suddenly guarded, she reached a cautious hand up to his cheek, trailing a finger along the scar, her eyes moving up to the other one at his temple. 

Malcolm tensed. His hand grasped hers and pulled it away. 

Trina's eyes flashed to Trip. "Was he -?"

"No," Malcolm said firmly. He squeezed her hand, then let it drop. "It wasn't him," he added, his voice softer now. 

There was silence as Trina, arms crossed over her chest, evaluated Malcolm quite frankly. 

"Do you mind if we..." Malcolm let his voice fade off. He shifted, seeming uncomfortable. "I mean, we'll do the work." Again, Trip noticed the uncharacteristic uncertainty. Malcolm was definitely playing a role.

"Not an issue" Trina said. She patted him on the arm. "Stay as long as you'd like. We can use trustworthy help." She looked at Trip, piercing him with her dark eyes. "So who is your friend?" 

"Trip," Malcolm said.

She gave him a smile that said a lot more than it should have. 

"It's not what you think," Malcolm added, words coming fast. Trip wasn't sure, but he thought Malcolm was blushing.

"You trust him?" Trina asked frankly. 

"With my life," Malcolm replied sombrely. Trip looked at him in surprise - he'd sounded like himself there for a moment. 

Trina nodded. Waving for them to follow her, she went back into the house. 

The first room they hit was obviously a kitchen - there was a stove of some sort, although from the sharp chemical smell coming from the pots on top, Trip sincerely hoped they weren't making dinner. 

Her back to them, Trina picked something up off a nearby counter. "Crowl House," she said, turning to face them. "You remember where that is?" In one hand, she held out a clear packet of something brown and powdery. The other held a sheathed knife.

Malcolm palmed the packet and nodded. Grabbing the knife, he left without a word. 

Trip stood there a moment, hesitating in his shock. A pointed look from Trina sent him scurrying after Malcolm. 

Trip went out through the main building, only changing to a casual pace when he hit the busy street beside Malcolm. 

"What's the knife for?"

"Protection," Malcolm said, still moving. 

"What's in the package?" Trip asked sharply.

Malcolm cast him a pointed glance. "Drugs," he said quickly. 

Despite having already really known the answer, Trip felt his gut clench. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Malcolm stopped, and Trip nearly bumped him. "Is it a problem?"

"Yeah, it's a problem," Trip replied, incredulous.

Malcolm's brow wrinkled in confusion. "They're legal here," he said. "It's the..." He cast a suspicious eye on the crowd flowing around them, and with one hand, pulled Trip against the nearest building. "The manufacture and distribution is strictly controlled by the government. The people Trina is working for undercut -"

"I don't care," Trip hissed. He rubbed a weary had across his eyes. Drugs. By all that was holy. 

"It's how we'll meet our -"

"Jesus, Malcolm." When he realised that Malcolm was staring at him impatiently, neither guilt nor concern in his eyes, Trip felt a part of himself give in. "What kind of drug is it?" he asked quietly, staring off into the crowd. 

"Casei. It's an hallucinogen."

Trip watched a young woman pass, arms full of shopping parcels. "Have you tried it?"

"What?" Malcolm said, sounding surprised. "No." 

Trip nodded, still not looking at Malcolm. "Good," he said brusquely, moving off in the direction they'd been heading. 

Let Malcolm follow him for once.

x-x

Trip sank down onto one of the mats on the floor. He started rummaging through his bag, pulling out what little he'd been able to bring with him - basically a change of clothing - and putting the items into a cubby in the wall. Malcolm was at the far end of the room in what served as the kitchen area, digging through the cabinets for food. There obviously wasn't much there. Eventually, he pulled out a box of something and got busy at the stove. 

After they'd returned from the drop, they'd been assigned a room in one of the outbuildings, which had been divided up into small, one room studios - Malcolm had called them "bedsits." Although good luck trying to bring a chair in to actually sit on - the two beds, stove and tiny sink was about all the room could fit. In fact, calling the two mats on the floor "beds" might actually be stretching things a bit. Small, cramped, and somewhat down-at-the-heels, the room wouldn't win any awards for luxury, but it was relatively clean. 

Speaking of small favors, he and Malcolm hadn't spoken at all during the drop, and not much after. He'd been too angry about the situation, and Malcolm - well, he had no idea what Malcolm felt about all this. About time he learned. 

He sat back against the wall behind him, draping an arm across one raised knee, and waited. As Malcolm finally settled across from him on the mat, placing a steaming plate of something unidentifiable between them, he asked, "Is this the sort of thing you did when you were here before?"

Malcolm, caught in the midst of scooping some of the food onto a plate, frowned. "Cooking?"

Trip almost laughed. "No," he said. He took the plate Malcolm offered, trying not to wince at the strong scent of the food. He watched as his friend ladled some of the mush onto his own plate. "The drops."

Malcolm nodded. Then, almost apologetic, added, "We'll probably have to do a few more before we get assigned the one I'm hoping for." He took a mouthful, grimacing before he swallowed. "You don't have to come along if it makes you uncomfortable."

Trip waved the issue away. He didn't approve of the whole drugs thing - "uncomfortable" wasn't even close to what he was feeling - but no way was he leaving Malcolm alone on this mission. Maybe long enough to use the bathroom, but for a drop? He took a small mouthful of the food, screwing up his face as the sharp taste hit his tongue. Talk about uncomfortable: stuff tasted like hundred year old, fermented, pickled beets. With fish. And maybe cheese. "This actually edible?"

"Should be," Malcolm said, staring down at his plate. He dropped his voice, almost too low for even Trip to hear. "Our physiologies are mostly compatible with those of the people here, and I had no problems with the food the last time." He looked up again. "Other than the occasional problem with the taste."

After a few moments spent silently eating, Trip asked, "You were here for... How long? Few months? Longer?"

Malcolm shrugged, busy with his food.

"You really never tried the Casei?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Not interested."

"What's it do?"

Malcolm was looking down at his plate, long hair hiding most of his face, but Trip could see the side of Malcolm's mouth curl upward. "Nothing good."

"Didn't that bother you?"

"When?" Malcolm asked, eyes to his plate as he trailed his utensil through the mush.

Trip held back a sigh. Either Malcolm was being deliberately obtuse, or else they were speaking entirely different languages here. "Back when you were here before."

"It did."

Trip frowned in confusion. "And it doesn't bother you now?"

At that, Malcolm looked up. "No." He stopped, seeming to think that over, and then shrugged and looked back to his plate. "I'm not the same man I was."

Trip watched Malcolm play with his meal, and decided to take a different tack. "Why does everyone keep thinking that we're together?"

Malcolm looked at him, his gaze frankly assessing. After a moment, his mouth twisted into something approximating a smile. "When I was last here, I pretended to have been an escort." At Trip's surprised look, Malcolm continued. "Most of the people working here were connected with the sex trade in their past, so it was a natural way in." He shrugged. "I suppose their reaction is to be expected. Do you mind?" 

"Nah," Trip waved Malcolm off with his utensil. "No. It's fine." He took another bite of his meal. "So, what? They think I'm a client?"

Malcolm's eyes brightened in amusement. "No. More likely, they think you're my boyfriend."

"Lucky you," Trip said dryly, coupled with a sly glance. "I'm a very, very good catch." He looked down at his meal and twirled the utensil in the mush, then let it fall onto the plate. Humor gone, he asked, "What were you doing here before?"

"The drops," Malcolm answered, clearly puzzled. 

"No. I mean, why were you here?"

He watched Malcolm's posture change, his back stiffening, fingers tightening on the utensil. "The Captain told you," he said, keeping his voice low. 

Trip dropped his pitch to match Malcolm's. "I know you had a mission here as part of your covert ops work, but I don't know anything beyond that." He pressed a bit harder. "What was your assignment?"

Malcolm put down his plate. Stiff and formal, he replied, "You know I can't tell you."

Trip nodded. Putting down his own plate, he said, "I know. I'm just concerned. You're back here and you weren't given any time between getting out of prison and..."

"Trip -"

"I'm not even sure what they did to you in there." He reached towards the scar at Malcolm's temple. 

Malcolm flinched. 

Trip dropped his hand. "What happened to you isn't fair. It wasn't right, but in that situation, Starfleet and the government back home -"

"I'm not an idiot," Malcolm interrupted brusquely, eyes guarded. "I know why they left me."

Trip blinked. This wasn't going the way he'd expected. "I just want to be sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," Malcolm said, his voice without inflection.

"Bullshit," Trip said, his gentle tone belying the harsh word. He leaned toward his friend. "You're not. What did they do to you?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't want to discuss this."

"Malcolm -"

Malcolm leaned forward angrily. "I'm not here to help you assuage your own guilt."

Trip felt that like a slap to the face. Through his shock, he forced out, "No, Malcolm, I -"

Malcolm scrambled to stand, shouting, "Enough!" over Trip's words. 

Trip held his hands up, palms out. "All right," he said quickly. 

Malcolm had turned away and was out before Trip had finished speaking, the door slamming behind him. 

x-x

Trip stared up at the darkness of the ceiling. The house around him had gone quiet some time ago, the only sound Malcolm's soft breathing from the mat next to his. 

Malcolm had returned well after he had already gone to bed. He'd pretended to be asleep. Knowing Malcolm, he doubted he'd fooled him, but the pretence had allowed them both some needed peace. 

He wasn't sure why he'd got on Malcolm like that. He knew it was a bad idea - Malcolm couldn't tell him about the past mission, and likely wouldn't tell him about the prison, but... It was like a test, a way to see how Malcolm would react, see what he could learn, if anything, about the man's state of mind. It was stupid. All he'd done was break down what little goodwill, if any, he'd gained. 

Hearing rustling from beside him, then an odd moan, he turned his head to the side. A ray of moonlight came through their one window, touching Malcolm's face, revealing the clench of a jaw. There was another soft moan. Nightmare. 

Trip propped himself up on an elbow. Not touching his friend - unsure of the reaction he'd get if he did - he said, "It's all right. You've come home. It's all right." 

Malcolm's face relaxed, and he settled into sleep. 

Trip flopped back on the mat. State of mind? Maybe not so good - for either of them. 

x-x

Their next drop went even smoother than the first, and they'd spent the rest of that day, and their percentage of the client's fee, shopping for food and toiletries. On their walk back from the shops, Malcolm told him that there was a bathroom in the compound's main building, and Trip was looking forward to a shower, a decent meal, and an evening of not much to do. 

Trip shifted the bag of shopping from one hand to the other. They'd been walking for a while, and as if by mutual agreement, neither had mentioned their conversation of the day before. Just as well - they both needed some downtime, and although the streets were crowded with shoppers and vehicles, he'd been enjoying the crisp air, stars showing bright against the dark sky above him. Malcolm had seemed to be relaxing a bit, too, his responses to Trip's questions occasionally even exceeding one sentence, although he still wasn't volunteering much; if Trip hadn't asked questions, they'd likely have spent the entire walk silent but for the exchange of occasional bits of essential information. 

Entering a particularly crowded square, he smiled to see the bustling market up ahead. Malcolm had promised that one of these shops offered a drink somewhat similar to iced tea, and Trip was looking forward trying it. Everything else he'd eaten or drunk here so far had been more than a bit odd. 

The whole situation had been odd, actually, but the ever-present darkness - that, especially, had taken some getting used to. Although he could see perfectly fine, he wondered if the darkness would eventually start to affect his mood. He'd heard of people going a bit nuts in places like Antarctica during their long, dark winters, and...

Malcolm abruptly stopped and, as the crowd parted and flowed around him, Trip saw him wince. Bags in one hand, he used the other to push his hair away from a face suddenly shiny with sweat. Taking a slow, deep breath, he closed his eyes. 

Trip stood directly in front of him. "How are you doing?" When Malcolm didn't answer, he reached out a hand and touched his arm. "Malcolm?"

Malcolm jumped, but the touch seemed to bring him out of it. He opened his eyes. "Sorry?"

"You doing all right?"

Malcolm's gaze moved past him to take in the people around them. "I've been better."

Trip took in his friend's excessive pallor and the nervous look in his eye. "Let's go back," Trip said firmly.

As a measure of his upset, rather than argue, Malcolm simply nodded. They started walking and he said, "I'm sorry. It's been a while since I've been around so many people. And I was fine, but the square..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged. 

"It's not a problem." When Trip saw Malcolm's disbelieving expression, he smiled. "Well, maybe it is a problem. But it's understandable." He looked away. "You've been through kind of a lot." 

As they stepped onto a quieter side street, he could actually sense Malcolm's tension lessen. 

"Kind of?" Malcolm asked sharply. 

Trip turned to him, confused by his tone. "Yeah, I..." Then he saw the gleam in Malcolm's eye, and he almost laughed in relief. "You're busting on me, aren't you?"

Malcolm smiled enigmatically and walked on ahead.

Laughing, Trip said to his back, "I missed you too, Malcolm."

x-x

Another night and a much better dinner later, Trip was lying on his back on his mat and waiting for sleep, arms crossed behind his head. Malcolm had already dropped off, after having spent the night playing a game of "Who's dating who/who's doing what job/who's transferred on or off the ship." He'd been gone for two years, and he was curious, and Trip was glad to find him interested enough in his past life to be asking. 

It had been a fairly comfortable evening, and Trip had thought of asking about the prison again, but decided to leave it. When and if Malcolm wanted to talk, he'd do so. No need to force it. 

Trip realised that he hadn't thought of Malcolm as anything but a friend in... Well, for almost the entire day. Not as a prisoner, not as a drug runner, not as a "secret agent" or whatever... Not as a stranger back from a long time away, not as a scarred, damaged human being, but as a friend. 

He heard Malcolm give a soft sigh. Trip turned onto his side and, pillowing his head on his arm, stared at his friend's profile. In this light, he could barely make out the scars.

Malcolm wasn't the same as before. Likely he never would be, after all he'd been through. But he was still Malcolm, still his friend. Maybe, despite it all, he'd be all right? 

Trip closed his eyes. Maybe they'd both be all right. 

x-x

"How much did he take?" Trina asked. She squatted in front of Malcolm, trying to look into his eyes. With the man's head leaning back against the wall behind him and his lids at half-mast, that was no mean feat. 

"Not much," Trip said, kneeling on the mat beside her. He held up a shaking hand. "A fingerful, more or less."

"Why?" she nearly spat, accusing eyes finally meeting his. "He never used to -"

"It wasn't him," Trip said. Or me, he thought. "It was the client."

She hissed in a breath, brow wrinkling in a frown. "Damn it," she muttered, turning back to Malcolm. "Malcolm? Can you hear me?" 

It was supposed to have been their usual procedure for a drop: just an in-and-out. They'd get invited in, exchange the drugs for the money, and leave. Took minutes at most, a well-oiled machine built on Malcolm's past experience and Trina's well-established network. But this one - this one had been different as soon as it had started. At first, he'd figured it was because this was a new client. He should have gone with his gut - something was wrong, he'd felt it. 

He snapped to the present when Malcolm groaned and pushed Trina's hand away.

He wished like hell that Phlox was there.

x-x

Malcolm cast a distrustful eye to the doorway above them, then took the stairs two at a time.

Trip shared his nerves, but followed. They'd been doing these kinds of drops for a few days, and done maybe six or seven in that time, all of which had pretty much been confined to clients Malcolm already knew from his time here. The few he hadn't known had been longstanding clients of Trina's. This was the first new client they'd been assigned. 

The door opened as soon as Malcolm signalled, and they were led inside. Malcolm and the man exchanged information while Trip stood back a bit, taking in the surroundings. And some surroundings they were. The foyer they'd entered was the largest he'd seen on this planet, and very well appointed. The height of the ceiling was enhanced by a series of soft uplights, which allowed him to see the patterns painted there despite the dimness of the room. 

"This way, please," the man said, his voice echoing slightly in the large space. "Nilo can see you now." 

Trip stayed behind Malcolm as they were lead to a side room. Their guide left immediately, closing the door behind him. 

Trip blinked against the relative brightness. There was a series of lanterns set on the floor at the edges of the room, each one spilling its flow of light upward onto walls of soft golden fabric. On Earth, it would have been considered muted, but here, and with his new eyesight, it was almost blinding. 

As his vision adjusted to the light, he realised that there was a man sitting at a table, with two others, probably retainers, behind him. Simply from their stance, Trip had no doubt that they were well armed. And from relative elegance of the seated man's dress, he had no doubt who this was, and to whom this place belonged. Nilo. 

Dark eyes hard against pale skin, the seated man leaned across the table. "You have what I ordered?" Despite the fact that there were two chairs in front of the table, the man made no indication that they should sit. 

Malcolm walked forward, staying slightly in front of Trip. He nodded. 

"You can put it there." Nilo waved a hand to the surface in front of him, his arm reflected in its shine. 

Malcolm placed the package on the table and took a step back. As one of the retainers leaned forward to take it, Nilo held up a stilling hand. "How do I know this is what I'd ordered?"

Trip froze in place, heart racing. His eyes flicked from the man, to Malcolm, and back. Oh shit, he thought. Oh shit oh shit oh...

"We don't do that," Malcolm said, his voice low and even. 

Nilo placed both arms on the table and leaned forward. With a wicked glint in his eye, he raised a brow. "So I give you the money and you leave, and I'm left with nothing. Or worse." 

"You were given references." Malcolm stood at attention, back ramrod straight, eyes trained on his opponent. 

Nilo nodded, acknowledging. "References lie."

Trip tried to catch Malcolm's eye, alarmed, but Malcolm was not taking his eyes off Nilo. His stance was tense and ready. 

Nilo's lips twisted and he smiled coldly. "You try it."

Malcolm didn't budge. "We make deliveries. We don't -"

"That's surprising," Nilo said, interrupting. "I'd figured all you guys for users." Then, for the first time, his gaze shifted to take in Trip. "How 'bout him? He do it?"

"No." Almost imperceptibly, Malcolm moved his shoulder in front of Trip, as if shielding him. 

Nilo leaned back in his chair, eyes moving from Trip to Malcolm. "How very charming. Protecting your *friend*," he said, twisting that last word. His face became stony. "One of you has to. Either you pick, or I will." He motioned to one of his retainers, who stepped forward and grabbed Trip. 

Trip tried to jerk away, but the man was strong. Holding him with one firm arm, the guard lifted his weapon with the other, pointing it toward Malcolm. The other retainer grabbed the package and looked to his boss, who nodded from his position behind the table. 

"You understand that this is for my own safety, and that of my friends. I can't take the risk." Nilo waved a hand to the retainer with the bag, who stepped toward Trip. 

Trip tried to force himself away from his guard. He realised that he had no idea what this stuff actually did. He'd tried not to know. What if the stuff was addictive? The idea of addiction... Malcolm hadn't said anything about that, although he had said this stuff was bad news. The man came in close, and Trip tried to jerk away again. 

Malcolm stepped right up to the table, closing the space despite the weapon trained on him. "Me," he said, his calm expression belied by the fire in his eyes. He leaned both palms flat on the table's glossy surface. Then he smiled, and it was the smile of a predator - hard, sharp, and vicious. "I'll do it."

"No!" Trip's attempts to protest had been ignored by all parties. He'd tried to struggle, but quickly gave up when he realised that it would make no difference - the situation was beyond his control. 

Malcolm hadn't ingested much, but it had been enough, Trip thought, settling back on his heels. He knelt there and let his eyes dart around their room - to the window, the sink, Trina, anywhere but to the mat where Malcolm was seated; that was, until he heard his friend give a soft, laughing sigh. 

Sinking to a seat on the mat, Trip watched his friend get lost in his own world. Trip wondered what Malcolm was seeing, because head back, face turned to the ceiling, he was smiling that same wide open smile he'd given to Trina when they'd first arrived here. 

Trip knew the Casei was some sort of hallucinogen. Thank God and all that was holy, so far those visions, if that's what they were, seemed to be fairly benign. Still, the stuff had hit hard and heavy. 

Moments after Malcolm had dipped his finger into the bag and licked it, rubbing the extra along his gums, his eyes had already gone a bit glassy. He'd looked up from the bag on Nilo's table, obviously trying to keep himself together. "Satisfied?" he'd asked, bitterness, and perhaps the drug, making his voice brittle. 

"One moment," Nilo replied, his voice like silk. "Let's see what happens next." His icy smile chilled Trip to the bone. 

Nilo nodded to the men around Trip and they stepped away, releasing him. Trip rubbed his left arm where one of the guards had wrenched it, but his eyes, like those of the rest of the room, were on Malcolm. 

Malcolm stood in front of the table and stared at Nilo. After a moment, he swayed slightly, eyes closing in a languid blink. 

"Ah," Nilo said softly. "Excellent." At that, he waved them out dismissively, apparently satisfied. He turned away, light glinting off dark hair as he stood. 

Not bothering to watch what happened next, Malcolm had started moving for the door, Trip hustling to follow. 

As they reached the door, Nilo said, offhand, "I look forward to doing business with you again."

They ignored the comment and kept moving, Trip keeping well within what would normally be Malcolm's personal space. And Malcolm made it almost all the way to the building's exit before he stumbled, catching himself with a hand against the wall. 

"You all right?" Trip asked, keeping his voice pitched low in case anyone was nearby. 

Malcolm looked up at Trip. His pupils had dilated, and his eyes were now bloodshot. He looked well and truly blitzed. "Look forward to doing business... not bloody likely," he murmured in response, slurring his words slightly. He pushed away from the wall and stumbled again, Trip catching him this time. 

"We need to go," Malcolm said quietly, eyes only for the door. "It's already taking me."

Malcolm was right. Whatever was in that Casei, it worked fast.

Trip had helped him back, ignoring the stares of passers-by, who obviously had some clue and were just as obviously disgusted. Finally reaching their own door, Zorna, on guard duty once again, took one look at Malcolm and gave Trip a knowing grin. "You know he'll get kicked out for this," Zorna said, raising an eyebrow.

Trip didn't stop moving, throwing back, "He didn't -"

"Doesn't matter," Zorna responded from his place by the door. "Too much of a risk -" 

Trip stepped down into the courtyard, and the rest of what Zorna was saying was cut off by the closing door. 

Trina settled beside him on the mat, bringing Trip out of his memories. She placed a glass of water beside him and handed him a packet of something silver-blue and granular. "Mix this with the water, see if you can get him to drink some."

"What is it?" he asked, finally tearing his eyes from Malcolm. 

"It'll help him as he comes down," was all she said. 

Trip stared at the packet in his hand. "Will he be...?" He found that he couldn't finish. 

"He should be fine," she replied, her voice tired. 

"Should be?" Trip asked as his head shot up, surprise sharpening his words. 

"There's a reason why we don't take this stuff ourselves." She winced slightly and ran a quick hand through her light hair. "Nine times out of ten the person is fine, once they come down. But that tenth isn't at all pretty." She turned dark eyes to Malcolm again. "It hit him fast, but he seems all right so far. Hopefully, he'll come off it just as quickly." 

"How long does this normally last?"

"About a day, maybe less." She turned back to him, her face suddenly kind. "Let him sleep if he seems to want to, just make sure he doesn't drink too much water. Stuff makes you thirsty."

Trina shifted as if to get up, but Trip stilled her with a hand on her arm. "Are you going to kick us out?" he asked. 

She lifted one assessing brow. 

"Zorna said..."

Trina pursed her lips. "Zorna is a very effective guard, but not a particularly pleasant man." She got up and nodded toward Malcolm. "We'll talk again when he's better."

Damn, Trip thought as she left. He'd seen the truth in her eyes. With a sinking heart, he knew they would be asked to leave. 

He turned his gaze back to Malcolm, who was now sitting slumped against the wall, arms propped on bent knees, head down. Trip thought he was... Holding himself still, Trip listened, and would have smiled had the situation been different. Malcolm was humming the theme from the old film, "The Empire Strikes Back," of all things. Strange choice. 

Trip hadn't seen that movie in years. Last time had been at movie night, must have been a couple years ago, now. Why in the world would Malcolm be humming...? Trip cut himself off with a gasp, realisation hitting him hard. If he remembered right, it was the last movie Malcolm had seen before he'd gone to prison. 

Maybe not so strange after all. 

"Malcolm?" he asked softly. He nudged his friend's leg with a hand. "Malcolm?"

Languidly, as if moving through water, Malcolm lifted his head, eyes still shut. His smile was gone. "Right," he said, his voice flat.

Trip poured the powder Trina had given him into the glass of water and swirled it around until the liquid went clear. "Drink this," he said, briefly pressing the glass to the back of Malcolm's hand. 

Malcolm moved his hand slowly. His fingers circled the cup. Trip helped him lift it to his lips, and took it from him after he'd taken a sip. Malcolm's arm again rested on his knee, hand dangling loosely. With effort, he opened his eyes for a moment, then let them fall closed again. 

All this, and for what? Trip thought as he put the glass down beside him again. They'd never even got the drop Malcolm had been hoping for, and now Trina would consider it too much of a risk to keep them working here. He watched a smile flicker across Malcolm's features, then disappear, and he closed his eyes against the sight. What the hell was in that stuff? 

He knew of drugs on Earth that were so bad, you could actually crave them after only having used them once. Was Casei like that? Would Malcolm be one of those poor souls? Trip shook his head, trying to ward off those thoughts. 

He could see why Trina would think that keeping them here would be too much of a risk. If you were trying to fight those cravings off, and the stuff was all around you, it would be next to impossible not to be tempted. Hell, even if addiction wasn't an issue, what if Malcolm liked it? What if he simply... Trip shook his head. That wasn't the Malcolm he knew. That man... But this wasn't that man. 

Trip opened his eyes and watched his friend dream. Another smile sped across Malcolm's face, gone as fast as it had come, and Trip realised that this was the most he'd seen Malcolm smile since he'd returned. 

Trip moved so that he was sitting side-by-side with Malcolm, and he slumped back against the wall. What if the drug helped Malcolm forget, or at least made him feel better? Wasn't that how some drugs worked - narcotics, for example? They'd take away your pain - physical, psychological, whatever. What if the stuff worked - what if it took away his pain, and he wanted to take more? 

Before Malcolm had gone to prison, Trip would never have thought such a thing, but now? Malcolm himself had said he was a different man now. Trip glanced sideways at Malcolm, then away again; the dreams, if that's what they were, certainly seemed to be pleasant enough. And if the visions were pleasurable... Trip winced. They were likely a sight more pleasurable than anything Malcolm had recently been through. 

Maybe Trina was right, in a way. After everything Malcolm had been through, everything they'd been through, maybe they should just cut their losses and go. 

x-x

Trip started awake. Groaning, he pressed his palm to the back of his neck. He'd fallen asleep sitting against the wall, and from the state of the crick in his neck, hours must have passed. He'd dozed off in the darkness despite himself, the tension of the day exhausting. 

Hearing a strangled shout, his eyes shot to where Malcolm was sleeping curled up beside him. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he seemed even paler than Phlox had made them, his skin filmed by a sheen of sweat. Voice strained, he cried out again, arm flying out as if warding something off. 

Malcolm had been having nightmares off-and-on since they got here; in the tiny room, Trip couldn't have helped but be aware of his friend's night time suffering. So far he'd been able to talk him through them, settle him back to sleep, and he tried that again now. 

"Malcolm," he said softly. When he got no response, he said it again and touched Malcolm on the shoulder. 

That's all it took. Before he could say more, Malcolm was crouched in the corner, back to the room, shouting for his life. Words unintelligible, he pressed his head into the corner and clawed at the walls. 

Jesus. 

Before Trip could think about it he was beside Malcolm. He could just see his face despite the hair falling forward and shielding it from view, and he caught a glimpse of wild eyes open and staring, expression twisted in anger or fear. A small streak of blood marked the wall where one desperate hand scraped. 

Afraid to touch him, instead he tried calling to him. No response. Heart pounding, he tried again. "Malcolm!" he said a third time, his own terror forcing out the word. 

Malcolm's eyes changed and shock flashed through them. He twisted his head to bring Trip into view. "Trip?" he asked, voice hoarse from the shouting. 

At this, Trip did reach out and touch Malcolm's shoulder. Tight muscles thrummed under his hand. "Hey, kid."

Malcolm blinked rapidly. "Why am I here?" 

Trip pulled and Malcolm let himself be turned. He collapsed on the floor, back to the wall behind him. Arms wrapped around himself reflexively, he drew his legs in tight. "I was -" He cut himself off, shaking his head and shutting his eyes. 

"Were you dreaming about the prison?" The words were out of Trip's mouth before he could stop them.

Malcolm didn't reply. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Trip asked hesitantly. He was torn between wanting to hear, and not. Trip wasn't sure how much the drugs were still affecting Malcolm, but he suspected a lot, and he didn't want to learn anything that Malcolm wouldn't want to tell him if in his right mind. 

"No."

"Okay." Relieved, Trip stood and went to the kitchen area, where he got the glass from earlier. It was still half full. Returning, he sat beside Malcolm, who didn't appear to have moved. "Drink this."

Eyes opening, Malcolm stared down at the glass. "Why?"

"It'll help."

With a raised eyebrow and a flash of the old Malcolm in his eye, he reached out an unsteady hand for the glass and drained it. "Tastes like mint tea."

"Somehow I suspect it's not."

Malcolm gave him a cracked smile, soon broken by a huge yawn. "We'll have to leave."

"I know," Trip replied, thinking of his earlier words with Trina. 

Malcolm uncurled, straightening his legs on the floor. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, then pushed his hair back from his face and yawned again. 

"Get some rest," Trip said, voice low. "We can talk in the morning."

Malcolm nodded and lay down where he sat, not bothering to move to the mat. He was out before he even hit the floor. 

x-x

The next morning, before Malcolm was even up, Trip went out to see Trina. He wanted to catch her before she started her day. 

Her door was open, the sounds of activity flowing through it, so he knocked on the jamb and went in. There were people bustling about in the kitchen, and the smells of food from the stove. It was quite a contrast from the first time he'd been there. The current scene was almost domestic. 

Catching sight of Trina working at the table, he stepped to her and said without preamble, "Can I do the drops?" She looked at him in surprise, but he continued, talking fast but unwilling to stop himself from doing so. "I know, with the Casei, I know Malcolm can't do it, but..." he let his voice trail off, unsure of how to finish or what her reaction would be. 

Trina frowned and wiped her hands on a cloth. "I didn't think you approved."

Trip felt himself blush. "I don't." He glanced at the others in the kitchen, and they looked away. He dropped his voice. "We don't have any place else to go, and Malcolm..." 

Malcolm would be proud of his acting skills.

Her eyes met his, and he found understanding there. "He's been through a lot, yes?"

He let all pretence fall away, able to be honest now. "Yeah." He shifted uncomfortably. "I'd still like..." He hesitated. "I want to bring him along." Trina raised a hand to protest, but he cut her off. "I won't let him near the stuff. I promise. It's just that..." Looking to the others in the room, he waved her out the door. 

Sitting on the stoop beside her, the ever-present darkness softening his words and giving him courage he might not have had in brighter light, he scuffed one shoe in the dirt. "I want him there so I can keep an eye on him. He's been through a lot - you said it yourself. He's not always..." He didn't realise he'd touched his temple until after he'd done so, and he dropped his hand in a rush. He'd been thinking of Malcolm's scar. "He's been through a lot," he repeated in a near-whisper. He turned and faced her. "I'm not always sure that he's okay." He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath. 

"The Casei may make that worse, at least for a while," Trina said quietly. 

"I figured as much." He thought of Malcolm's violent nightmare of the night before. Maybe that'd be it, the worst of it. Maybe he'd come down off the Casei and be fine. 

Oh, who was he kidding? Malcolm, lately, had not had that kind of luck. 

"How long have you known him?" she asked softly. 

"A long time," he replied, mirroring her tone.

Trina considered him carefully. "He'll know what you're doing. I'm not sure he'll react well to being babysat."

Trip felt his lip curl in a sad smile, remembering similar words from Malcolm back when they'd been in sickbay. "I'll tell him I need him there for my protection. He'll buy that." As she started to shake her head, he jumped in quickly. "It's a risk. I know it. One drop, see how it goes. Please." 

x-x

Trip stopped in the doorway, holding himself still. Malcolm was still solidly asleep. He'd somehow managed to end up half-on, half-off the mat, on his side with his head pillowed on an out thrown arm. The blanket Trip had pulled over him the night before was pooled by his feet.

Cautiously so as not to wake the man, Trip moved to the kitchen area and grabbed one of the small cakes they'd bought some days before and, filling a glass with water, settled on his mat. He took a bite of cake, staring out the window above Malcolm's bed. He was looking down to take a second bite when his eyes were pinned by Malcolm's gaze. 

Malcolm hadn't stirred other than to open his eyes. 

Trip tensed. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said quietly. "How are you feeling?"

Malcolm's eyes moved to the cake. "Hungry." He looked at Trip again. Malcolm's gaze was direct, his eyes clear, if tired.

Trip smiled in relief. Cocking his head, he said, "I have another if you'd like it. They aren't too stale."

Slowly, Malcolm pushed himself upright. "I could eat most anything," he replied, stretching his neck and shoulders carefully. "How long was I out?"

"A good ten hours, maybe more." At Malcolm's look of surprise, he shrugged. "You needed it. You were pretty..." He left the rest unsaid, sure that his expression said what he couldn't.

Malcolm winced. "I don't remember very much." He ran a rough hand across his stubble. "Well, I remember leaving Nilo's, and..." he hesitated a moment. "...some of the walk here, but otherwise? It's all a bit..." He moved his hand vaguely. 

"You didn't do anything embarrassing," Trip said with a slight smile. He purposefully didn't mention the nightmare. If Malcolm didn't remember it, that was probably for the best. He noticed Malcolm looking at his cake, so he slid it over to him, along with his glass. "I'll get another."

Standing, he was about to step to the kitchen again when Malcolm stopped him with a word. "When do we have to leave?"

Trip looked down at his friend. He hadn't planned on talking about this so soon. "We don't. I was able to convince Trina to let me do the drops."

"But how will you...?"

Trip knew where Malcolm was going with this. How would Trip complete their mission? He wouldn't even know if they'd reached their contact. "She agreed to let you go with me." Trip turned to the stove, his back to Malcolm. 

"How did you manage that?" Malcolm asked, wariness and caution in his tone.

"I told her I needed you there, for protection." He fished out another cake from the bag. 

"And she bought that?" Malcolm asked, doubt clear. 

"More or less," Trip replied, filling a glass. Turning back to Malcolm, he returned to his place on the mat. "I also told her I was worried about you."

"And that convinced her?"

"That did," Trip said, taking a sip from his water. 

"Because she thinks I'm... What, exactly," Malcolm said, a statement rather than a question. 

Trip put down his cup and leaned toward Malcolm. "Between the Casei and the..." Glancing at Malcolm's scarred temple, he hesitated before he said, "...the everything else." He sighed when he saw Malcolm look away. "She's not blind, Malcolm. She knew that something... She knew you'd been hurt." 

"Hurt," Malcolm said, seeming to ponder the word. He flashed a brief smile that reminded Trip of the one he'd given Nilo. Sharp. Predatory. His gaze met Trip's again, and there was something deeply unsettling there. "That's one way to describe it." 

x-x

Trip kept a careful eye on Malcolm for the rest of the morning. That smile from earlier - that alone would have been enough to set him on edge, but it hadn't reappeared since. Malcolm actually seemed to be pretty much settled and, since they didn't have any drops scheduled, they split the day between cleaning the tiny room and washing some of their clothing. 

It wasn't until dinner that things went wrong.

"Would you like some lunch?" Malcolm asked, placing his mat back in their sleeping area. 

Trip, with the mat he'd just cleaned still in hand, nodded. "Thanks." Malcolm moved to the kitchen area as Trip busied himself with their bedding. 

Since their arrival, he'd been happy to leave most of the cooking to Malcolm. The man was no great chef, but at least was more familiar with the local foodstuffs than he was, because if food prep had been left to him, they'd just as likely end up with something both bad tasting AND physically inedible as they were to...

There was a shout and Trip's head went up in time to see Malcolm drop a plate and turn away from the stove. He sank to a seat on the floor, one hand cradled in the other. Breathing heavily, he looked down at his hand, eyes shielded from view by the fall of his hair. 

Trip could see a raised red welt on his palm. There was the broken plate and what Trip assumed was their ruined lunch on the floor beside him. 

"Malcolm?"

When his friend didn't respond, he stepped to Malcolm's side. Squatting in front of him, Trip tried to at least look calm as he took Malcolm's hand. "What happened?" he asked in a studied tone. 

"Sorry," Malcolm said quietly enough that the word was almost lost. "I thought -" He cut himself off, still not looking at Trip.

Unsure of where this was going, Trip held himself still. He could feel the tension creeping up his back. 

Malcolm tugged his hand from Trip's grasp. "I burnt my hand."

"Okay," Trip said tentatively.

Malcolm looked up at him, eyes troubled. "In prison. I burnt my hand in prison." He shook his head. "They burnt it. Not me." He made to stand, and Trip helped him up. 

"It's all right," Trip said softly. He reached for their water pitcher and a cloth.

"No it's not," Malcolm said sharply, taking the damp cloth and placing it on his palm. Eyes on his work, his hair fell forward to screen his face from view. "I'm not."

"I know," Trip said, keeping his voice calm. 

Malcolm turned to him. "They'll send me home."

"They might not," Trip responded, knowing that it was likely a lie. Enterprise had no way to help someone who might need long term counselling. The normal procedure would be to send the person back to San Francisco for treatment, and, if necessary, even to discharge them.

"No, they will." Malcolm's words came fast and furious, mirroring the rising panic in his eyes. "They'll have to. Where will I go? To my paren -" He gasped and took a full step back. "My mum, good Lord, she doesn't..." His eyes went desperate. "Is she all right? My father? Madeline?"

Trip took a slow step toward him. "They're all fine."

Malcolm raked shaking fingers through his hair. "I didn't have a chance to..."

Trip took another step, closing the distance between them. "I know." He put a hand on Malcolm's arm. Malcolm flinched but didn't move away. "I'm sure they've been notified that you're out. You can contact them when we get back." 

He guided Malcolm to their mats and, gently but firmly, pushed him down. Squatting directly in front of him, he held Malcolm's gaze: he seemed to be teetering on an edge - one push in either direction would send him falling. Coming to a sudden decision, Trip stood. "I have an idea. Stay here," he said. "I'll be right back." Moving to the door, he looked back over his shoulder to see Malcolm still sitting there, looking bewildered. He held up a warning finger. "Do not move." Exiting, he took off at a run for Trina's house. 

If they were on Earth, or on the ship, there was no way that he'd even consider doing what he was about to do. But here, there were no other resources. And so long as they didn't make a habit of it...

He burst through Trina's door and caught her mid-stride as she entered the kitchen. "Malcolm's..." He shook his head, trying to settle his breathing. "I need something that can calm him down." Trina opened her mouth to speak, but Trip held up a hand. "Nothing strong. Nothing serious. Something..." he searched for the perfect word, "...recreational."

Trina nodded and, moving to a shelf on the wall, handed him a small, clear bottle filled with a deep green fluid. "Arozol," she said, brow wrinkled in concern. "It's nothing much. Mildly alcoholic. Calms the nerves, tends to make people a bit giggly." 

"Perfect. Thanks," Trip said, already moving. Turning just at the door, he said, "I'll pay you for -"

She cut him off with a wave. "Go."

x-x

"So, Hoshi said, and I quote, 'What are you doing in my underwear, sir?' " Trip smiled and took a sip of his drink, watching Malcolm over the rim of the glass. 

Malcolm threw his head back and laughed, nearly causing the drink in his hand to spill. 

"Careful," Trip said in alarm. "We only have, like..." He grabbed the bottle with his free hand and held it up off the floor. He peered at it carefully, vision swimming slightly. "Not so much left." With exaggerated caution, he placed the bottle on the mat between them.

Malcolm nodded solemnly, seeming to fully understand the import of the situation. He took a careful sip, then raised the glass as if toasting. Looking at Trip over its edge, he said, "This is all very 'sickrooms and party supplies', isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" Trip replied. 

Malcolm waved the question away, almost spilling his drink again as he did so. "That's a sign on a store I used to pass. I just mean that, well, this is all somewhat like laughing in the face of perversity, is it not?"

Trip smiled. He reached out with his glass and, when Malcolm raised his own, clinked them together. "That it is, sir. That. It. Is."

x-x

Later that night, Trip awakened to the sound of their door closing. Malcolm was gone from his mat; probably stepped out for a piss. Understandable, after all they'd drunk. Drunked? Drinken? Hmm... He smiled drowsily and let his eyes close again.

Getting that booze from Trina had been a good idea. Risky, yes, but it had been the only thing he could think of at the time, and its calming effects had been just the thing needed to bring Malcolm down from the heights. And the stuff hadn't been at all bad, if a bit green tasting. The after effects were leaving him a bit dopey. No, maybe dopey wasn't quite the right word. More like soft. Soft and sleezy. Like New Orleans in the heat and humidity of August, or...

In a rush, Trip realised that he'd dropped off, and Malcolm still wasn't back. He pushed himself up with a muttered swear. Heart in his throat, he was still shrugging into his coat as he pushed through the door to the outside. What he saw stopped him cold. 

Malcolm was sitting on the stoop and staring off into the darkness. 

"Hey, you okay?" Trip asked breathlessly.

Malcolm looked up as Trip sat beside him. "Actually, yes. Surprisingly."

Trip nodded and, tension evaporating as quickly as it had come, turned to face the night. The sky above them was mostly starless, the moon hidden behind a streak of clouds. It lit them from the inside, making their edges glow silver. 

Neither one spoke as they sat together on the porch, breath pluming in front of them in the cool air. After a while, Trip rubbed his hands together, then tucked them up under his armpits. Malcolm had to be cold - he wasn't even wearing a jacket. "You really good?"

Malcolm nodded. 

Trip took a long look at his friend's profile. After a moment, he reached out and gently tugged at the hair hanging over Malcolm's collar. "You're fine-fine, and not Reed-fine, right?"

The side of Malcolm's mouth twitched in response. 

"Too cold. I'm going in." Trip stood and nudged Malcolm with his foot. "Coming?"

"I think I'll stay out here for a bit," Malcolm replied, still looking at the night. 

Trip took off his jacket and placed it across Malcolm's shoulders. "Here."

"Thanks," Malcolm replied softly.

Closing the door behind him, Trip leaned back against it with a sigh. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but that hadn't been it.

x-x

The next afternoon brought them their first post-Casei drop, and Trip was a bundle of nerves. It was his first time holding the package, and, although he had Malcolm there to watch his back, the change in responsibility was making him deeply uncomfortable. Still, he had to do this - he had to get through it, so they could stay. 

He watched Malcolm assess the buildings as they walked past. It was good that Trina had let Malcolm come along - Trip hadn't even thought about how he'd figure out the address. To him, each of the doors looked like they'd been marked with a bunch of random patterns, but they definitely had meaning and order; meaning and order that Malcolm, with the help of his handy native device, was somehow able to figure out. And without Malcolm, there would be no way that Trip would recognise the person they were looking for; even Malcolm had only seen him once, in a crowd during his last assignment here. Thank God his friend had a good memory. Lord knows, if he'd seen someone from afar, across a crowded room, years ago... Let's just say that unless it was kismet, there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd remember that person's face years later, even with the fate of Earth on the line. 

"Here," Malcolm said quietly, interrupting Trip's thoughts. They had stopped in front of a large and imposing doorway. Trip gave a low whistle - the house was clearly the centerpiece of the neighborhood. If its security system was in any way reflective of the grandeur of the rest of the place, there was no way anyone could get inside without an invitation. 

Taking the steps his usual two at a time, Malcolm placed his palm to one of the swirling patterns. Trip joined him just as the crackle of a speaker rang out from somewhere above them. Malcolm turned his face upward and, speaking into the darkness of the alcove ceiling, he said, "We're here with a delivery."

The doorway was wide enough that they were able to enter side-by-side. It closed with a barely audible "click" as an imposing man, obviously security, stepped from the shadows. Wordlessly, he led them to a far door, stopping just inside as they entered. 

Draperies drawn, the room was dark, its sole occupant sitting in the pool of light coming from his desk lamp. He looked up at them with light eyes, pushing paperwork aside as he did so. 

Trip saw a glint of surprise and recognition cross Malcolm's face, quickly smothered. Trip felt himself tense, but he tried to keep that buried as he let his gaze move from Malcolm back to their host. This was it, the person they'd been trying to find. Knowing he needed to let Malcolm take the lead on this one, Trip purposefully kept himself just behind him as they walked across the plush carpet. 

Malcolm stepped to the desk. "We have your package." He nodded to Trip, who stepped forward and slid the drugs onto the desktop. 

Before the man could even reply, Malcolm was across the desk and on him, pulling him up and away from his chair. Trip caught the glint of metal at his neck. Malcolm was holding him at knifepoint. 

Looking past Trip's shoulder, Malcolm said, "Put it down." His voice was icy. 

Trip was about to turn, but froze when the guard spoke. "I'll shoot your friend."

"Not before I cut," Malcolm said. Eyes steely, he twitched his knife hand. The man gasped, and Trip saw a drop of dark blood mar the pale neck. Malcolm repeated, slower this time, "Put it down."

Eyes wide, the trapped man nodded, and Trip heard something thump slightly as it was placed on the floor well behind him. 

"Trip," Malcolm said carefully, eyes still held on the guard, body tense and ready. "Restrain him, please."

Casting about for something he could use, he settled on the drapery ties. He used one to restrain the guard, and then stepped to Malcolm's side with another. At Malcolm's nod he began tying the man's hands. He felt Malcolm step away, and looked up when he heard a noise from across the room. Malcolm was turning away from the now unconscious guard, knife still in hand. He'd likely used its hilt to knock out the guard. 

Returning to Trip's side, Malcolm pushed the man down into his chair and stood over him. "What do you know about Earth?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said, eyes wild. 

Trip stepped away slightly but kept close and ready. 

Malcolm was almost on top of the man now, his posture threatening. "We know you're involved. What do you know about Earth?" he repeated, an edge in his tone. 

"I don't know anything about it," the man spat out. "I don't even know what it -"

Malcolm slapped him, hard. Blood trickled from the side of the man's mouth. 

Trip, in his shock, noticed that the blood was just as red as that of a Human. In the darkness earlier, it had almost looked black, but now, in the brightness of the desk lamp, it stood starkly red against pale skin. Red. This wasn't acting, or Malcolm taking on a role. This was... this was different. Wrong. This was wrong, and it wasn't like Malcolm. Not the Malcolm he knew. 

Malcolm raised his knife as if to strike and Trip stepped forward. Malcolm's head turned in his direction, and he was pinned in place with hard eyes. 

Malcolm turned back to the man, voice a low growl in his throat. "I know you have information..."

Trip lost the rest when his eyes connected with those of their victim. He saw desperation, and fear, and something else. In a sudden moment of clarity, he saw what it was - the man was lying, he could see it in his eyes. With a gasp he tore his gaze away and took a step back. Malcolm continued questioning the man, looming over him as the man shook his head no, a red welt rising on his jaw where Malcolm had hit him. 

Trip stood stiff, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The interrogation went on, and he could feel his anger build with every refusal, every lie. The Xindi. His sister. The millions of people who had died. His hometown gone, burnt off the face of the Earth by a bunch of... He felt the sharp pain of his fingernails digging into his palm, and he welcomed it.

Not again. No way was he letting something like that happen again. No fucking way.

The man gave a vehement shake of his head and Malcolm pushed him away, disgusted. Trip realised that this was their last and only chance. Either they got the information from this man, or all this - everything they'd done, everything they'd been through here - would be wasted, and there would be nothing they could do to help Earth, to prevent the attack. They were running out of time. This was their only damn lead. 

Malcolm approached the man again.

Trip spun away from the scene, heart beating madly in his chest. He couldn't let it happen again. He could not. He already felt the weight of his sister's death, and back then there had been little that he could do to prevent it; now at least he had a shot. If they failed... If he failed... He closed his eyes against the imagery, but it was too late. He felt himself break under its weight, shattering into a million pieces. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't stop the attacks. 

His breath caught. His eyes flew open. He wouldn't have to. The anxiety of moments before flowed away, replaced by an icy calm that tickled the edges of his mind as wrong wrong wrong, but he let it come. It was better than the agony and confusion of seconds earlier. Ice flowed into his chest, arms, and face, flowing through his veins. And with it, came a plan.

Turning back to Malcolm, he tugged at his arm and pulled him aside and out of earshot. Aware of the man's stare burning into them, he asked, "What else can we do to get him to talk?"

"Other than physically threatening him, I - "

Trip stepped in a bit closer, hand clasped on Malcolm's arm. "What if we stop threatening, and start doing?" At Malcolm's look of alarm, Trip went on, using his height to his advantage. He cut right to it. "There have to be some ideas from that prison we could use." He pulled at Malcolm's arm. "Something effective," he added, putting the full weight of his intention into those words. "Something quick." Malcolm tried to take a step back, but Trip held him in place. "We need this info."

"No, Trip. I -"

Trip ran right over him. "We have to."

Malcolm's eyes skidded from Trip, to the wall, and back again. "I don't want to go back there," he said quietly. 

Trip knew what his friend meant, but he pushed harder, knowing full well what he was doing. "We have to. There's no choice." 

Malcolm shook his head and looked away. 

Trip lowered his voice further, hand tight around Malcolm's arm, and their gazes locked. "It doesn't matter what we do here," Trip said. "Whatever happens - hell, we can sacrifice ourselves, I don't care, but we have to get that info." He put on his command voice and straightened, dropping Malcolm's arm. "We can *not* leave this room without it."

Frozen in the moment, neither of them spoke. Then Malcolm's eyes went hard and he nodded sharply. "You should step outside." 

Trip opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Malcolm's expression changed. "You shouldn't see this," Malcolm said, almost looking like himself for a moment. It was gone in a flash and he turned back to his work. 

Trip returned Malcolm's nod and walked away. Shutting the door behind him, he leaned back against it for a second, then pushed away frantically. Pacing the empty corridor, his footfalls softened by the carpeting, he kept a careful eye out for any additional guards or staff. 

Trying hard not to think about what was going on behind that door, or about what he'd just done to his friend, he kept himself in constant motion. He'd be surprised if Malcolm didn't snap, or, if he came out of that room whole, at a minimum end their friendship. And he should, damn it. He should, because what the hell kind of friend would... He shook his head anxiously. First Starfleet used him, and now he couldn't even trust his best friend not to do the same. Trip stopped pacing and wrapped his arms around himself, holding himself still. 

He'd had to. The fate of Earth was on the line. If it took the sacrifice of his friend, or of himself, it would be worth it, so long as they got the information they needed and got it back to Starfleet.

Whatever happened here, it was his guilt; it was on his head. Being in prison may have changed Malcolm, may have made him capable of doing... Trip's hand shook, and he ran it through his hair roughly. He'd been the one who'd pushed Malcolm. Malcolm came into this damaged, but he, not Malcolm, was the one that made this decision. He, not Malcolm, had forced this action, had forced Malcolm to take this action. Any blood shed here was on his hands, not Malcolm's. 

He jumped when an alarm went off. Malcolm practically burst through the door. Looking up at Trip with desperate eyes, he said, "Go."

Trip ran behind as they fled down the corridor and out the exterior door. The door closed, cutting off the sounds of running feet from the other end of the hallway. 

They sped down the empty street, dashing into an alley, and then another one, before they emerged into a crowded marketplace. Malcolm checked their pace and they stepped into the throng. 

"Did you get the information we needed?" Trip asked, trying to catch his breath. 

Malcolm nodded, eyes on the crowd. "We should try to make the next rendezvous with Enterprise." He left the rest unsaid - the man's staff would be looking for them and, once word got back to Trina, so would she. They had to get off planet now. 

Trip knew the plan and, rather than think about what they'd just done, he focused on that instead. Since there was no way they'd have been able to bring comms with them - the only device they'd brought was the native one Malcolm had appropriated on his last mission here - Enterprise would be looking for them at their rendezvous point some distance outside the city. Trip had seen the maps and scans - the place wasn't close. This was going to be a pain in the butt. 

He didn't realise that it would be painful in other ways, too. 

x-x

Trip edged along the narrow shelf as water rushed through the culvert some nine meters below. The wall behind him was slick, and the water smelled of iron - Mississippi River water, rather than the Gulf - as it sent its spray up to coat his face. Malcolm, leading slightly, said something that he wasn't able to hear over the roar of the water. It didn't matter; they were almost there.

It had already taken them some time to make it this far, but they were nearing the end of their journey. No one seemed to be close on their trail. Thank God for that. He didn't want to think about what would be done with them were they captured - even if they were simply thrown in some sort of prison, he couldn't imagine Malcolm doing at all well in that sort of situation. 

Malcolm finally reached the end of the channel and looked back at him with the closest thing to a smile he'd seen since the drop, and Trip returned his own tentative grin. A short uphill hike would have them exit to street level just outside town, and then it was a five-kilometer walk to the meeting place. 

He kept his back to the wall behind him, fingers tracing through the slickness as he moved. It was cold out here, and he was already soaked from the spray. He'd be glad to see this end. 

That's when his feet slid out from under him. 

Cold water closed over him, grabbing at his clothes as he struggled. Growing up on the Gulf coast, he'd always been a strong swimmer, but it was so dark, the rapids so disorienting, he lost track of which way was up. He broke the surface, only to go back under again. His head impacted something hard and he was pushed up again, gasping for air and swallowing water. The current pulled him along, tugging him back under, and he knew with sudden, shocking clarity that he was well and truly fucked. 

x-x 

He woke shivering and wet, lying on his back on something hard. Malcolm, face paler than even Phlox's treatment would allow, eyes a stormy grey, leaned over him. 

Trip squinted. Dark sky arched above them, and he could hear the sound of water nearby. "Where are we?" He coughed, throat aching. 

"Near the culvert. Can you walk?" Malcolm asked, voice kept soft despite the noise from the river. He pushed wet hair away from his face. 

Trip nodded carefully, trying not to anger the ache in his head. There was a dull pain in his arm, and he felt as if the weight of the world was sitting on his chest, but if walking would get them out of here, then yeah, he could walk. With Malcolm's assistance, he staggered to his feet. 

By the time they made it to the clearing which was their rendezvous point, Trip was feeling bleary, wet, cold, chafed, and hot, pretty much in that order. Malcolm lowered him to the ground near a tree, and he slumped against it with his head down, spent from the trek. A breeze stirred his hair and set the leaves on the trees around him to rustling. In its own way the sound, plus the darkness, was oddly soothing. 

After a moment which Malcolm probably spent scouting for robbers or something, he sat beside him. Neither of them spoke. 

Trip stared down at his hands, which rested loosely in his lap. Nothing to do now but wait. Wait and wait and... Trip frowned and blinked, hard. He was really out of it. His head was killing him. He was also seriously nauseous. Or was that nauseated? 

"Sorry?" Malcolm said from beside him. 

It was only then that Trip realised he'd spoken aloud. "Nothing," he replied, waving a hand loosely, then wincing when even that small movement hurt. He turned his head carefully and stared at his friend's profile. Malcolm's jaw was tight, and he was staring off into the dark clearing before them. 

"Are you okay?" he asked tentatively. 

Malcolm answered with a shrug. 

"Malcolm, I'm sorry -"

Malcolm cut him off. "Let's not." He glanced to Trip, then away. "Not right now."

Trip tensed. "All right," he said after a brief hesitation. They sat in silence for a while, Trip picking at the dirt under his nails, Malcolm staring out into the dark. 

He should never have left Malcolm back there in that room. He'd basically ordered the man to... He shook his head, disgusted at himself. He should have stayed. 

"What did you learn?" Trip finally asked, keeping his voice low. 

Malcolm didn't answer at first. Then he huffed a bitter laugh and leaned his head back against the tree. "They're not even alien. A group on Earth is planning the attacks."

"What?" Trip said as his focus snapped into place. "How do you...?" Trip cut himself off. "You trust that guy?" he asked, thinking of the man they'd left back at the house. 

Malcolm's mouth twisted and he turned to Trip, eyes blazing with anger. "Trust?" he said with a hard laugh. "Hardly. But I believe the information he gave is accurate." 

Trip shook his head, but that caused his headache to increase. Nausea roiling his gut, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the tree trunk, grateful for the darkness around them. 

Malcolm went on. "They had local help, from this planet." An edge came into his voice. "The people here have a long history of terrorism and violence, although most of that's well in their past now."

That explained the extreme level of security that most of the homes here had. 

"Still," Malcolm continued, "... Apparently some are willing to hire their knowledge out. I'd imagine the terrorists also used contacts here to help throw investigators off their trail. From what I can tell, they plan to blame the attacks on aliens."

"Why?" Trip asked, his voice just above a whisper. 

"They're isolationists," Malcolm said. 

Trip would have nodded, if he'd had the energy to do so. After his dealings with Terra Prime, a violently xenophobic terrorist group, the idea of another, similar group wasn't entirely shocking. Still, to have them have actually recruited alien help. And for those aliens to have agreed. What would be the benefit to the aliens?

As if reading his mind, Malcolm said, "The people here agreed to get involved for the promise of future support in their own 'activities'." He twisted the last word into something vile. "Some sort of technology exchange, although our contact wasn't clear on that last bit."

Trip found he had no response. What this group was planning to do was unimaginable. That they'd do this against their own people, and so soon after the Xindi attacks - it had only been a few years. By all that was holy. "Who?" he got out, chest tight. He forced his eyes open again and looked at his friend.

Malcolm had turned to face him, expression dull, spent. There was a bruise livid on one cheek. "Some group called PLTP."

Trip sat there, numb in his shock. PLTP. Pour la Terre PremiÃ¨re. He'd heard of them. They were a bunch of isolationists who'd gotten a lot of press after the Xindi attacks, and then again after Terra Prime had been put out of commission, but hadn't done much since.

Suddenly woozy, Trip grabbed onto Malcolm's arm. Voice low, he asked, "The information we got - is it enough to stop the attacks?" 

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. I think so."

"Good." He nodded and tried to stand. The world spun madly. The ground rushed up to meet him. 

x-x

There was humming... Someone was humming, God, what was it? Star Wars? No. Empire Strikes Back. 

Trip's eyes slid open to see Malcolm sitting in the chair next to his biobed. The man was working on something on the padd in his lap. And humming. 

"Do you mind?" Trip asked, his voice coming out as a croak. 

Malcolm looked up in surprise. Without turning away, he called out, "Doctor?" Then a low, hurried, "Are you all right?"

Trip felt fine - dopey, a bit off-kilter, but he was definitely feeling no pain. He was sure there was pain to be had, but Phlox obviously had him on the good stuff. He gaze moved around the room. Sickbay. He didn't remember getting here. Enterprise must have made their rendezvous.

As Phlox and one of the medics bustled over him, he took the opportunity to do his own evaluation. Malcolm had lost his excessive pallor - Phlox likely had reversed their treatment. The man wasn't in uniform, and his hair was still far longer than regulation, but... Maybe it was being back on the ship, or what Trip had made him do on their mission, but there was something a bit more "official" in his demeanour. Trip frowned, suddenly uneasy. Malcolm seemed all right, but somehow he doubted that everything was blue skies and roses on that front. 

After they were alone again - well, as alone as one could ever get in sickbay - Trip asked, "Can you help me sit?"

"Yes, sir," Malcolm said. Reaching a hand to the controls, he began raising the head of the bed. 

Trip raised an eyebrow at the "sir", and was gratified when Malcolm actually blushed. "I think we can leave the ranks aside, Lieutenant," Trip replied, placing an emphasis on the last word. "For now, at least. Until you're back on duty." He cocked his head and tried to keep his nervousness from showing. "That is, if that's what you want."

Malcolm hesitated, eyes shrouded. "I don't know," he finally said. 

Trip felt his heart sink. "I understand," he said, trying to keep his tone even. "It's not as if you owe us anything, and Starfleet treated you like complete crap. At least I could have..." He sat forward and raised a hand imploringly. "I'm so damn sorry. I treated you like -"

"No," Malcolm said quickly. "That's not what I meant." He frowned. "Do you think they'd let me stay?" His gaze skittered across sickbay before settling back on Trip. "Here, I mean. On Enterprise."

Trip exhaled audibly. Starfleet owed this man. He owed this man. He'd make sure the powers that be fully understood just how much. "I'll talk to them, try to explain..." His words were broken by a yawn. Already exhausted, he closed his eyes.

He heard Malcolm stand. "You should get some sleep, sir... Trip." 

Trip let his mouth curl into a smile, but it dropped away when something hit him. "What exactly happened to that man?" he asked, eyes opening slowly. He was desperately tired, but there were questions to be asked and issues to be resolved before he could really rest. 

"I left him there when the alarm went. He'll be fine..." At that, Malcolm gave him an odd smile. "...for the most part." His smile dropped away. "Physically," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"What did you do to him?" Trip asked, sitting straighter. 

"I'd really rather -"

"Malcolm," Trip interrupted, his voice, in his guilt, coming out sharper than he'd intended. 

Malcolm's stance went stiff as he stood nearly at attention, and his face became a mask. "Are you ordering me to tell you?" he asked bluntly.

"What?" Trip said in surprise. "No, no. After what..." After what I did, he thought bitterly as he shook his head, rubbing a rough hand across weary eyes. He leaned back against the bed and dropped his voice. "Listen. You don't owe me anything."

Malcolm broke his stance and stepped to his bedside, the edge of his mouth quirking upwards slightly. Hand curled in a soft fist, he gently punched Trip's leg under the blanket. "No, Trip. You're wrong. I owe you..." He unclenched his hand and pulled it back as he looked directly into Trip's eyes, expression frank and open. "I owe you a lot. But I'm not sure you really want to know what I did back there." He sighed, then said quietly, "We needed that information. There wasn't much time."

Trip couldn't keep the frown from his face. "It just doesn't seem like you, to -"

Malcolm cut him off. "We often have to do things we don't like, things we are uncomfortable with, that even go against our sense of right and wrong, but we do them because we must. We do them for the greater good." Their eyes connected, and Trip found understanding there. Malcolm knew. He knew what Trip had done. And he understood. 

"Still, I'm not sure that you, before the prison..." He held Malcolm's gaze as he let his voice trail away, unsure of exactly how to say it. "Or even then, if I hadn't..." 

Malcolm's expression went wary. "Probably not, no."

Trip nodded, pulling the blanket up a bit higher. Suddenly, he felt chilled. Numb. What, exactly, had he done to this man? "Phlox get a chance to finally check you over?"

"Yes," Malcolm said quickly. 

"And...?"

Malcolm's hand lifted toward the scar at his temple, but he pulled it away before he spoke. He shrugged, eyes troubled. 

"What did he find, Malcolm?" Trip asked cautiously. 

Malcolm broke eye contact, instead looking toward the far wall. He crossed his arms, and Trip wasn't sure if it was as a defence or for comfort. 

"What's wrong?" Trip asked, heart in his throat, numbness gone in an instant. "Did what I...?" His hands gripped the blanket so tightly that his knuckles ached. "Are you all right?"

Malcolm shrugged again, the movement fast and jerky, before he looked at Trip, eyes distant. "I think so, but he's not... and..." Trip's alarm must have shown in his expression, because Malcolm quickly said, "Not your fault," words tumbling out in a rush. "What they did..." He sucked in an audible breath and blinked rapidly. "Can we not talk about something else?" His eyes skittered away again. 

"All right," Trip said, purposefully keeping his voice even and level. He'd let Malcolm leave it for now. "Listen... Malcolm," he said, and Malcolm's eyes snapped back to meet his. "If you ever need to talk."

"You'll be the first person I go to." Malcolm's stormy eyes gentled, and Trip caught a glint of humor. "Well, that is, after Phlox is done with me, and after the debriefing, and the Starfleet brass, and the doctors, and the counsellors, and..." Malcolm waved a hand in a circle, ad infinitum. "Perhaps a nice course of drug therapy."

"Nah," Trip said. "You're not that messed up."

Malcolm held up a hand. "I am that 'messed up'. I simply hide it very, very well." 

Trip stared into his friend's eyes, unsure how much of what he'd just said had been in jest, and how much serious. "Speaking of drug therapy, where's the Casei?" he finally asked, the gentleness of his tone contrasting with the intensity of his gaze. 

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

"Where is it?" Trip repeated slowly. He doubted that Malcolm would have just left it there, and Malcolm's next words proved him right. 

"I brought it back." 

Trip felt his stomach drop. "Where is it now?" he asked, his cracked voice leaving the words cold. 

Malcolm glanced across the room, then back. "I gave it to Phlox. I'd thought he could find a use for it."

"Oh," Trip said, the sound coming out of him in a rush. "I thought you -" He cut himself off. Malcolm looked so surprised that Trip said, "I'm sorry," running a tired hand across his eyes. "I just... I wasn't sure." It was so typical of Malcolm to bring that drug back here for the doctor's evaluation - conscientious to a fault. He wasn't sure that Malcolm was really okay, but even with the changes, the core of the man was still there. He looked up. "I want to be sure that you're all right."

"I'm fine," Malcolm said, lips curling with the hint of a smile that never reached his eyes. "And that's fine-fine, not Reed-fine." He patted Trip's leg through the covers. "Get some sleep."

Malcolm walked away, and Trip watched him go. He knew Malcolm was lying. He wasn't fine. But still, maybe it would be all right. He wasn't sure Malcolm was the man he knew before the imprisonment, or ever would be again, but that might be all right, too. 

"Fine." Yeah, sure. Both of them were "fine", but maybe that was good enough. At least it was a start.

x-x

"Up for a visit?" Jon asked with a smile, poking his head through the privacy curtain that surrounded Trip's biobed. 

Trip put down the padd he'd been playing with. "Sure," he said. He'd been in sickbay for three days, and already he was sick of the place. Visitors were more than welcome, and Jon was probably one of his more frequent. 

"How are you feeling?" Jon asked, pulling over a chair and, turning it around, straddling it. 

"Pretty good, actually. Phlox thinks I'll be out of here in a couple days."

"Bored already? Not enough visitors? I could always order T'Pol..."

At that, Trip held up a hand. "Hoshi brought some of those cool Japanese bean cakes earlier, but Phlox made me promise not to try any until at least tomorrow. And Malcolm was here this morning."

Jon draped his arms on the back of the chair. "How is Malcolm?"

"You've seen him," Trip said with a puzzled frown. Malcolm had been discharged from sickbay the day before and assigned to guest quarters. He knew the captain had spoken with him at least once since then. 

"Yes," Jon replied with a nod. "As his captain. You've seen him as a friend. How is he?"

Trip winced. "He's not the same, but he's functional. I'm not sure... You know he wants to stay on board, right?"

"He's said as much."

"You going to have him sent home?"

Jon paused, as if considering, although Trip figured the man had already given the issue a lot of thought. "No. Not unless I have to."

Trip nodded. They owed him that much. "You going to tell him?"

"Tell him what? That he can stay?" Jon peered at him cautiously. He obviously knew where this was going. 

Trip shook his head slightly. "What you did to get him back."

Jon gave him half a smile, but his eyes were shadowed. "No, Trip. I don't think he should know. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

Trip nodded. He, Jon and T'Pol were the only people on the ship who knew. Jon was right - it would do Malcolm no good to learn what they'd done - what Jon had done - to get him out. T'Pol was terminally close-lipped, and Jon would never tell, not once he'd made the decision not to. 

And neither would he. Like Malcolm, he was good at keeping secrets. 

x-x

I've borrowed some lines and inspiration for part of this story, by design, from a couple of sources. First, the television series 24, which gave me major inspiration for the first chapter and part of the third. You'll see snippets of dialogue in chapters 1 and 3, and even two flashes of scenes that should look quite familiar, if you've seen the source. Second, "Nightlife" and "Moonshine", both by Rob Thurman. From these books, I got some inspiration for my snarky version of Trip, and for one scene with Malcolm - the one where he claws at the walls. 

Lastly, a huge thank you to TW, from the EntSlash Yahoo list, who burnt a DVD of the episode "Damage" and mailed it to me at my desperate request for information about the Illyrians, as well as to others on that list who did screen caps and etc. as I searched for information.


End file.
